


The Universal and the Specific

by borealowl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (there's definitely some pining), 6000 Years of Slow Burn, 6000 words of slow burn, Cuddles, Handholding, I don't actually know how to use tags, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Post-Canon, TV Canon, There might be some pining, don't worry they kiss at the end, not really angst just fretting, not that slow I guess, since it's only one chapter, there's also a lot of apologizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 14:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borealowl/pseuds/borealowl
Summary: Aziraphale is full of love and not ready to think about who exactly that love is directed at.Crowley knows the angel isn't trying to flirt with him, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with.it takes a bit of time before either of them realize the obvious.





	The Universal and the Specific

They met in the park. They didn’t really need a clandestine meeting point anymore, it’s not as though their respective head offices were still paying attention to them, but it was habit by now.

“Why _are_ we meeting right now, Crowley? Has something happened?”

The demon shrugged and tossed a piece of bread into the water. “Nothing in particular. I just wanted to, you know, check in, make sure sure there wasn’t any trouble, that sort of thing. How’s the bookshop?”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Oh, it’s just wonderful. Yesterday I had someone come in with two rare first edition prophecies and a misprinted bible from the sixteenth century! I bought the lot.”

“I thought the point of a bookstore was to sell books, not to acquire more.” Through his glasses, he watched the angel’s face grow thoughtful and a bit concerned.

“Well, yes, I suppose, but then I would have to part with them. You know how I hate to do that. Do you think I should be trying harder to sell?”

Crowley shrugged again. “Don’t ask me, you know I don’t read books.” As he said it, he could see Aziraphale’s eyes widen sadly, and Crowley added crossly, “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you know I have other interests.” That didn’t help, so he tried again, “Since we’re here, let’s go get lunch.” That was more successful. Aziraphale’s face brightened, and his eyes flicked up to meet Crowley’s, then down, then back up again.

Whenever Aziraphale’s gaze darted shyly towards and away from him, Crowley remembered a lecture delivered to him by a rather tipsy young American lady in a nightclub. “The secret to flirting,” she had said, “the secret, is eye contact. You look at them for a couple seconds, then look away, then look back at them.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he’d asked, bored and not entirely sober himself. The girl waved her hands vaguely in the air. “I’m just trying to help. I came here to make out with British girls, and here you are, moping in a corner. Sighing and pining. And I thought, ‘if he’d just take off his glasses and use eye contact, I’m sure he could find a nice guy. Or girl. Or whatever he’s into.”

Crowley had stiffened indignantly. “I am a demon! A lord of Hell! I do not mope, or pine, or any of those things.”

The young lady just giggled. “What _ever_. I’m telling you. Eye contact. Away and then back again. Watch this.” She caught the gaze of another young woman across the room, looked down, and then slowly looked back up again, smiling. A few minutes later, the two girls were dancing together, Crowley completely forgotten. And he would have cheerfully forgotten the American in return, except that every time Aziraphale smiled at him like that, he could hear her voice whispering, “eye contact.” Crowley knew the angel wasn’t flirting. Aziraphale wasn’t interested in fraternizing with a demon. If anything, he was probably looking away in disgust, then looking back out of politeness. And yet.

Aziraphale was blissfully unaware of Crowley’s thoughts. As they walked toward a certain little cafe, the angel couldn’t help but beam with happiness. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and he owned three more books than he had yesterday morning. It was a perfect spring day, and Aziraphale was filled with love. That was the best part of being an angel—he was always filled with God’s love, even toward people he didn’t much like. Even people he loathed, like those who talked about “core values” and those who were careless with books and those _who answered their mobile phones in the bookstore_ , they were still part of this glorious beautiful world and Aziraphale could love them for that, if nothing else. And right now he was with Crowley, who he didn’t dislike at all. Cheerfully distracted, he reached for Crowley’s hand and held it as they walked.

The warm pressure of Aziraphale’s fingers was not helping Crowley’s state of mind. So many of Aziraphale’s mannerisms were out of date, and it was entirely possible that handholding had been a common act of politeness at some point in the past and the angel had refused to update his knowledge. It had probably happened during the nineteenth century, while Crowley was too busy sleeping to notice.

If he could have been honest with himself, he would have admitted that he’d asked for this meeting for no reason at all beyond missing the angel, and asked Aziraphale how he felt, and he wouldn’t have to spend so much time and effort fretting over handholding and eye contact. If he’d been a being of peace and joy, he could have just enjoyed the moment—not asked any questions, just held the angel’s soft hand and basked in the reflected glow of his joy.

But he was Crowley, and a demon. He wasn’t really evil, he hadn’t fallen because he liked to cause pain, but when an opportunity to sow a bit of mayhem arose, he never could resist it. Even when the mayhem was just in his own life. So when Aziraphale glanced up at him and absentmindedly squeezed his hand, Crowley held his hand in a vise-grip, lifted it up and smirked.

“What’s this then?” he asked in mock triumph. “Fraternizing? You _do_ like me.”

Aziraphale snatched his hand back and blurted, “No, I don’t! No, wait! I didn’t mean—”

“You _do_ ”

He sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do. But I don’t see why you have to make such a fuss about it.”

“A _fuss?_ This isn’t a fuss. This is me stating a basic fact, after you _lied_ to me.”

“I didn’t lie! I was just…flustered.”

They kept bickering all the way to the cafe, and if Crowley regretted losing the angel’s hand, at least he had the consolation of watching Aziraphale’s face go through a series of confused and indignant expressions. He’d been watching the angel’s face for six thousand years, and never grew tired of it.

***** 

Over the next few days, Aziraphale tried to put the teasing out of his mind, but his own sense of honesty—he never did mean to lie, he just panicked sometimes—forced him to acknowledge that the demon’s taunts were deserved. He’d been rather rude in the weeks leading up to the end times, anxious about the upcoming war, and he’d said some things he didn’t mean and definitely regretted. Now that Armageddon wasn’t a concern and the Head Office knew they’d had an arrangement, there was really no harm in admitting that he was quite fond of the old serpent. Perhaps he should apologize for his previous words. Yes, that was a good reason to telephone Crowley and arrange another meeting, even so soon after the last one.

When they met again in the park, Aziraphale realized that he had forgotten to bring any bread for the ducks. He could have just miracled some up, of course, but it was probably best not to draw too much attention with frivolous miracle use, not so soon after the recent unpleasantness. So instead of standing and staring at the pond, he and Crowley walked slowly along the path.

After several minutes of companionable silence, Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Crowley, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’ve come to the conclu—“

“Hold that thought, angel—“ Crowley interrupted, bending down to pick up a £2 coin. Aziraphale watched him reach down, tug fruitlessly at the stationary coin, then freeze with the oddest expression on his face—equal parts anger and rue. Aziraphale was not entirely clear on the situation, but he hated seeing Crowley frustrated on such a pleasant afternoon, so he snapped his fingers and released the coin from the glue. The coin came free with a pop, and Crowley slowly turned to stare at Aziraphale, who tilted his head in confusion.

“Really, Crowley, I don’t see why £2 is worth such a fuss, even if it was stuck to the sidewalk.” The demon continued staring at him, prompting Aziraphale to ramble nervously. “It almost looked like it had been super-glued to the pavement. But why would anyone do such a thing?”

Crowley looked down at the coin in his hand, then started to laugh. Aziraphale remained baffled for a moment, then realization slowly dawned.

“Oh Crowley. You _didn’t._ ” This only made the demon laugh harder, and soon they were both laughing. A passing woman gave them a strange look, which only made it worse. Sides shaking and legs weak, Crowley flung his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and leaned against him, gasping for breath. It seemed only natural for the angel to wrap an arm around his friend’s waist to hold him up.

The sun was not shining, and the only bird in earshot was a rather irritated jay, but it was still a perfect day. Leaning against Crowley like this, still chuckling weakly, Aziraphale was filled with love. Was it universal love, or something more targeted? He was fundamentally honest, or he tried to be, but six thousand years of denial is a hard habit to overcome. So he didn’t think too deeply about the question. He loved the world, that was enough. And, being an angel, he was able to simply stand there and enjoy that love, and feel the warmth of Crowley against his side. He looked up at the demon, then glanced shyly away when he saw Crowley looking down at him. But, as always, his eyes were drawn back to that dear familiar face, and he smiled. This had the somewhat disappointing effect of causing Crowley to squirm away from his arm and clear his throat.

“You were saying?” he asked. Aziraphale paused for a moment, then remembered why they were meeting.

“Ah, yes. Crowley, I’ve been considering your previous words, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I owe you an apology.”

Crowley turned his face back to Aziraphale’s, but his smile had been replaced with a look of irritation. “An apology? For what?”

“I’m afraid I have been rather unkind to you at times. I should never have said that I don’t like you.”

Crowley waved a hand at him and scowled. “I don’t need an apology for that. I knew you didn’t mean it. I—ah, never mind. It’s fine.”

“Well, can I at least take you out to lunch?”

“Not today, I’m busy doing…demon things.” Aziraphale’s face must have shown his disappointment, because Crowley scowled harder. “Oh, don’t look like that, Angel. I’ll come by the bookshop later, we can go get dinner or something.”

As he walked away, Crowley tried not to look cool and unaffected, forcing himself into such an exceedingly nonchalant saunter that he almost fell into the pond. He knew the angel wasn’t flirting. Even if every other angel somehow learned to flirt, Aziraphale never would. There was no point in thinking so hard about the angel’s motivations. The world was saved and things could be simple again. So why did he have to smile like that? And then look so sad? Now Crowley would have to find something to do with his afternoon, and he would have to turn up for dinner, or imagine the angel’s disappointment.

**** 

Although Aziraphale had carefully locked the bookstore doors an hour before, they swung open a little after seven. “I’m afraid we’re—Crowley!” His face lit up. “I’m so glad you could make it! I know just the bistro to take you to.”

A one corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked upward. “I knew you’d help save the world, if only to keep all your fascinating little restaurants.”

“It is one of the many wonderful features of humanity,” Aziraphale agreed. They stepped outside and he turned to lock up the shop. As he did so, Crowley peered up at the sign over the door.

“A bit ironic, isn’t it? You being Mr. Fell and all, when I’m the one who actually did.”

The angel wrinkled his brow. “Did what?”

“Fell.”

Aziraphale looked away, unsure of what to say. Underneath the demon’s flippant words was an undertone of real pain. He laid a sympathetic hand on Crowley’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Crowley scowled at him.

“I already said I didn’t need an apology, angel. Not from you, anyway.”

They stood there for a moment, then Crowley shook the angel’s hand off and started walking.

Aziraphale jogged a bit to catch up to him. After a moment, he spoke. “I just realized, I never asked about your best friend.”

Crowley stopped. “My what?”

“When I was discorporated, you said you lost your best friend. I never asked whether you were able to be reunited after young Adam fixed reality.”

Crowley shook his head. “You’re so dense. How are you so dense? How could I—argh. Are you trying to be stupid on purpose?” Aziraphale just looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

“You, angel. I lost you. Your bookstore was on fire, and I looked everywhere for you and you were gone. The world was ending and I had lost my friend of six thousand years. Okay? Do I need to spell it out for you any clearer?”

Aziraphale felt that intangible joy rise in him. He smiled up at Crowley and took the demon’s arm, patting it fondly. “You silly old serpent. You know it would have been nothing worse than paperwork.” He thought for a moment. “Well, and armageddon, I suppose.”

“Oh, well if _that’s_ all, I suppose I shouldn’t have worried. Stupid angel.” Crowley scowled, but he didn’t pull away, and they walked to the bistro with linked arms.

*****

After that, they fell into a new Arrangement. Every few days, Crowley would saunter into the bookshop, or Aziraphale would leave a rambling message on Crowley’s old answering machine, and they’d take a walk and maybe stop by yet another restaurant. Occasionally Aziraphale worried that he was spending too much time with Crowley. He was opening and closing his bookshop at the oddest hours these days, and that couldn’t be good for business, even if it did help him avoid selling any books. On the other hand, Crowley definitely had less time for mayhem of late, and he could take some credit for that. Even if Upstairs wasn’t too kindly inclined toward Aziraphale at the moment, he still wanted to be a good angel. To spread joy and love to the world, and thwart the enemy. If that could be accomplished by taking the enemy out for croissants, all the better. And even if the enemy wasn’t really the enemy anymore, Crowley did tend to cause havoc whenever he got bored, so keeping him entertained was still a virtuous act.

Crowley might have worried about how much time he was spending in Aziraphale’s company, for entirely different reasons, but he was very good at not thinking about things that worried him. And it was more interesting than gluing coins to the sidewalk, which he had to admit was beneath him.

And so the New Arrangement continued, and if the two of them had both been just a bit better at denial, it might have gone on for another six thousand years. But they weren’t, and even the most oblivious immortals have a breaking point. It took less than six months for things to fall apart.

*****

On one rather nice afternoon that summer, while Crowley was misting his plants and making ominous noises about the lack of new foliage, he heard a knock at his door. He felt a brief frisson of panic, wondering if Beelzebub had sent someone after him again, but then he realized that no demon could make a knock sound so…cheery. Putting the spray bottle down, he sauntered over to the door and flung it open with a flourish.

“Hello, angel. Since when do you come to my flat?”

Aziraphale beamed at him, his face so radiant that it almost hurt to look at. “Crowley, I just had the most marvelous idea!” He held up a large basket. “Let’s go for a picnic!”

Eating on the ground in the sunshine was hardly Crowley’s idea of fun, but when he imagined saying no, and that delighted face turning sad, he knew that he had to accept. There were serious drawbacks to having an imagination.

To Crowley’s surprise, the picnic was actually quite pleasant. Aziraphale had brought a spread of food that rivaled the Ritz, and gleefully set to while Crowley politely nibbled a biscuit and enjoyed the rapturous expressions as the angel sampled each dish. Better yet, Aziraphale had brought two bottles of excellent wine, and they drank both under the shade of a grand old tree. Sleepy from the wine and the warmth of the day, Crowley decided that this would be an excellent time for a nap, and dozed off before he could think better of it.

He drifted to semiconsciousness several hours later, when the afternoon sunlight lay thick and golden across the park, to find his glasses off and his head resting in the angel’s lap, while Aziraphale quietly read a book.

“Mmph?” he mumbled vaguely. The angel looked down at him.

“Oh, Crowley. I hope I didn’t wake you. You just sort of slid over, and the ground looked so hard and dirty, and I didn’t think you would appreciate waking up with grass in your hair. I do hope you don’t mind.”

“No’tall. Sssnice.” Crowley closed his eyes and let himself drift off again.

He woke several hours later to find Aziraphale gently patting his cheek, rather like a cat who wants breakfast. “Crowley, are you ready to wake up? It will be dark soon, and this park closes at sunset.”

The angel’s face was tinged golden pink with the last rays of the setting sun, and he was looking down at Crowley with a benevolent—almost affectionate?—smile. The angel looked away for a moment, then back down, and his smile brightened. In that moment, Crowley almost reached up his hand to pull Aziraphale’s face down to his for a kiss. In his half-awake state, he didn’t even know where the impulse came from, only that it would feel absolutely right.

One of the downsides to being a demon is that one can't just do what's right. It takes real effort to do the right thing, and Crowley was not nearly awake enough for that sort of effort. He started to lift his hand, then dropped it. Instead of a kiss, he extended out a long forked tongue and flicked Aziraphale on the nose.

Startled, the angel jumped up. Crowley’s head, deprived of its pillow, hit the ground with a thud that caused the Aziraphale to start apologizing and offer a hand to help him up.

After Aziraphale pulled him to his feet, Crowley stood for a moment on the grass, his glasses off and his hand still holding the angel’s. The twilight settled around them, making Aziraphale seem to softly glow. Crowley looked at the angel’s worried face and rumpled clothes, and felt the realization strike him like a flaming sword.

“Shit! Damn. Bloody Hea— Hel— fuck!” He continued cursing, starting with English and working his way back to Sumerian, then forward again.

“Crowley?” asked Aziraphale, his worry only deepening. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Bugger this. I’m off!” snapped the demon, and he stomped away to his car, leaving a very confused Aziraphale behind in the park.

*****

The problem, Crowley decided as the Bentley careened through the streets, was that there was no way to tell what the angel felt. He knew Aziraphale liked him—he’d known it since Rome at the very least—and it was possible that Aziraphale loved him, in that angelic way that he loved everyone. Maybe demons were supposed to be excluded from that set, but if Aziraphale had a flaw as an angel, it was that he loved too much. Food, music, books, humanity. Aziraphale didn’t love from on high, he just loved. And he was kind. He gave away his sword and extended a wing to keep a demon out of the rain.

But there was still a big difference between loving the universe and loving one demon in particular. _I could just ask him_ , thought Crowley, before instantly realizing that he couldn’t. Funny that, being cast out of heaven for asking questions, and now he couldn’t bring himself to even ask one. But it was too risky. What if simply asking crossed a line and drove the angel away again? When Aziraphale only threatened not to speak to him again, Crowley stopped time in desperation. He wasn’t sure if he could handle being rejected outright.

And why did he love Aziraphale, anyway? Demons weren’t even supposed to feel love. (Of course, they weren’t supposed to have imaginations either.) And Aziraphale was a stuffy angel who didn’t know what the internet was, and thought modern music was all bebop, and embarrassed himself failing to do magic tricks when he was capable of miracles. He wasted miracles on things like broken bikes and yet almost got his head cut off because using a miracle to save himself would be frivolous. Heaven tried to destroy him, and he still worried about being a good angel. He asked stupid questions like “still a demon?” He thought Crowley was _nice_. His whole body wiggled when he was happy. His face lit up when he saw Crowley.He— _oh shit_ , thought Crowley. _This is bad. How long has this been going on?_ The demon didn’t want to think about it any more. He had a sneaking suspicion the answer would be close to six thousand years, and how embarrassing was that?

 ***** 

The problem, Aziraphale decided as he sat on the bus, was that he wasn’t a very good angel. He tried, he really did, even after all the recent unpleasantness with the Head Office. He didn’t care too much what they thought, but he didn’t want to disappoint the Allmighty, and he didn’t want to do the wrong thing. If he were a better angel, filled not just with love but with burning holy righteousness, he wouldn’t be so worried all the time. He would know he had done the right thing, from the day he handed off his flaming sword to the evening when his best friend starting cursing and stormed off. Maybe if he didn’t worry so much, he would have noticed whatever he’d done to bother the demon so badly and ruin a perfect afternoon. And it had been perfect, at least until Crowley inexplicably licked him.

Aziraphale blushed, remembering that moment. Crowley had looked so peaceful and happy while napping, and even after waking up. For a moment, Aziraphale thought that the demon could feel the same brightness and love that he did, and he’d been about to bend down and…he wasn’t sure, but he’d felt something pulling him towards the demon. It was silly, of course, demons couldn’t love. But Aziraphale could, and he wished he could share even a fraction of the light that filled him. These past few weeks had been so perfect, save for Crowley’s odd flashes of moodiness. If only the demon could know he, like all Creation, was loved. Even if he couldn’t love back, maybe he could reflect that love like the moon reflecting sunlight, and feel a bit of that ineffable warmth.

 _If I were a better angel_ , he fretted, _I would be able to help him_. It occurred to him that a better angel, at least by the standards of Headquarters, wouldn’t care about a demon at all. But some tiny stubborn core of his angelic soul insisted that no love could make one into a bad angel. He might worry and doubt himself, but he had to believe that all love was part of the ineffable plan. He was supposed to love everything. In general. It was universal love, nothing specific.

***** 

In the wake of his realization, Crowley thought that it might be best to avoid Aziraphale. But what demon can resist temptation, the luring or the falling? It took two days before he showed up at the bookshop with half a case of wine and two bottles of single malt.

“You know what I’m in the mood for, angel?” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Alcohol. I brought lots. Want some?”

Aziraphale had been wondering whether he should call Crowley to apologize for whatever he had done to upset him. But when the demon swaggered in with his arms full of bottles, it occurred to him that maybe Crowley was trying to apologize himself, that this was a peace offering. Either way, it looked like an excellent set of vintages.

Three hours and most of the bottles later, they found themselves sprawled out along the battered old couch. As the night wore on, Crowley had slid further and further along it until his head and feet were propped up on the sides and the rest of him was lying across Aziraphale’s lap. The angel didn’t seem to mind.

“‘mm sorry, angel” he slurred. “Sorry for what I said th’other day. Wass inna mood.”

Aziraphale looked down at him blearily. “You’re not mad at me?”

“No, no!” Crowley waved his hands about. “Not your fault. Maybe your fault. A little. Mostly my fault. Don’t apologize. I’m apologizing. Sorry.”

The angel blinked. “Oh. That’s good.” He looked away for a moment, then back at the demon. “But what’s wrong?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nooooo, I’m too drunk to be having this talk, and I don’t wanna be sober. Juss gonna nap. Sssleepy.”

He reached up and patted Aziraphale on the cheek. “Good angel. You’re the best angel.” He said something else too, but it was incomprehensible to both of them. And then he was asleep.

*****

He woke up to sunlight streaming through the window, a blanket carefully tucked around him and a cushion under his head. He didn’t have a hangover—at least, not for longer than a moment—but he did have a few regrets. Crowley weighed his options. He could try and say or do something about his feelings, which would lead to some extremely unpleasant conversations and possibly the loss of the most important thing in his life. He could slink off home, and maybe avoid Aziraphale for a while until he sorted his feelings out. Neither prospect was appealing. In the meantime, he was still snake enough to enjoy that he was lying in a patch of warm sunlight. Maybe he could just sleep for another century and when he woke up he’d have a better idea. So he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the demon sleeping on his couch. Was he sad? Sick? Was he warm enough with the blanket? Perhaps, thought Aziraphale, he should buy a heat lamp like the ones at the zoo.

Before the angel could resolve to purchase terrarium supplies, Crowley woke up. He lay on the couch for a little while, listening to the angel bustling about, then silently slunk off into the night.

 ***** 

Over the next few weeks, Aziraphale’s eyes would drift to the empty couch, and each time he felt an odd sense of loss. It wasn’t as though Crowley had disappeared—he still stopped by the bookstore for a quick chat sometimes, and occasionally Aziraphale ran into him around Soho, and they’d exchange greetings. But the long walks and meals had stopped, and the demon always hurried off before the chats could turn into anything deeper.

Aziraphale still loved the world—how could he not?—but the spate of perfect days had tapered off. As much as he enjoyed his bookshop, perhaps it was time to get out more. He went to the park, alone, and sat on the bench feeding the ducks. Surrounded by the cheerful bustling mass of humanity, Aziraphale started to feel the joy return. He did love them all: the teenage girls giggling and tugging on each other’s hair, the woman quietly reading a book in the shade, the Russian Cultural attaché whispering to his American counterpart. The little girl next to the path, putting...what _was_ that she was putting in her mouth? That wouldn’t do at all. With a quick wave, Aziraphale replaced the unidentified object with a piece of candy, to the girl’s immediate delight. Watching her toddle back to her parents, the angel knew that what he felt was holy. Even if something was lacking, he was still a being made of love. A tad wistfully, he tossed the last scrap of bread into the water and started walking.

On the way home, a gleam of light on metal caught his eye from the sidewalk. He bent over to pick up the coin, only to discover—of course—that someone had glued it to the sidewalk. Unsticking was too minor to even count as a miracle, but for a moment he couldn’t even summon the thought. The sight of the coin should have annoyed him—evidence that Crowley was back to his demonic ways—but all he could feel was a surge of joyous warmth, filling in all the little spaces in his heart that had been empty just a moment before.

“Oh,” he said aloud, leaving the coin on the sidewalk as he straightened up. “Oh my.” It had never occurred to him to sift through the his feelings of love, but he realized now that there was a definite difference between the universal and the specific. And without one, the other just felt lacking.

“Oh dear, this won’t do at all.” He continued talking to himself. “Crowley doesn’t, well, he can’t, well. No wonder he’s been avoiding me. Perhaps he could tell. Oh, this is no good at all.”

Back at the bookshop, Aziraphale paced around, shelving and reshelving the books. Before the armageddon-that-wasn’t, the angel could have talked himself into believing this was all a mistake, that he was just confused, and anyway, Upstairs would never have it. But now he had no such excuses. His supervisors had washed their hands of him quite thoroughly, with blazing hellfire. And without anyone to report to, he felt more of a need to prove—to himself, if no one else—that he was still an angel, still a force for good. What that meant as far as loving a demon—a specific demon, as an individual—he wasn’t sure. But he knew that avoiding the conversation would not be the right thing to do. And he wanted so desperately to do the right thing, it was all he ever tried to do, and he never ever knew if he was doing it right.

*****

Crowley heard the knock on his door and knew instantly who it was. He briefly considered pretending not to be home, but he suspected Aziraphale had heard him yelling at the plants. And anyway, he’d barely seen the angel in three weeks. In the past, they’d spent centuries without ever running into each other, and sure he’d been lonely, but he’d always found ways to full the time until their paths crossed again. Now it was only three weeks, and he already missed the angel desperately. It was pathetic, and undignified, and he shouldn’t give in, and somehow he was opening the door and smirking. “Hey, Angel. It’s a bit late in the day for a picnic, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale stood stiffly outside. “Crowley. May I come in?”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and motioned him in. “Have a seat. Oh wait, there’s only the one chair in here.” He waved a hand. “There you go.” While the angel sat primly in the new chair, Crowley sprawled out in the old one and watched Aziraphale through his glasses.

“Crowley. I. I’ve come to apologize.”

“Oh not this again,” the demon interrupted. “I’ve already said, there’s no need to say you’re sorry.”

“But, I’ve been thinking and—“

“No, no, I’m not interested.”

“Crowley!” exclaimed Aziraphale in exasperation. “I’m trying to tell you something important!”

“What, is the world going to end again? What did you do to cause that?”

Aziraphale was annoyed—this was not going how he imagined. On the other hand, his imagined conversation had involved a stiff apology followed by an angry outburst or worse, a chilly silence, so perhaps this was something of an improvement. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips, and he caught Crowley’s eyes. A second later he looked away, worried that his feelings were too transparent. But then he looked back, because he couldn’t help it, and the rush of warmth he felt on seeing the demon’s face transformed his reluctant smile into something bright and full of love.

Crowley watched Aziraphale start and break eye contact, and as the angel caught his eye again and smiled his radiant smile, the demon felt something snap within him. “Eye contact.” he grumbled, pushing himself out of the chair and striding over to Aziraphale. “Why do you have to look at me like that?” He pulled his glasses off and grabbed the angel’s shoulders, leaned forward until they were eye level. Stared at the angel with his golden snake’s pupils. “Is it that hard to look at me? I’m still the enemy?”

“Oh, my dear,” whispered the angel, his face falling. “Oh no, not at all. I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“I love you. I’m sorry, but I do.”

Crowley scowled. “You love everybody. It’s what you do.”

Aziraphale’s smile returned, tinged with sadness. “Not like this. I love you, in particular, out of everything in the world. So much that I can’t look at you, and I can’t look away.”

Crowley stared at him. “You…wait…you...”

He could feel the bright warmth of the angel’s love, and he could feel an answering glow from within—not a reflection, but a light of his own, a spark that the long fall and the darkness of hell could not extinguish. He knew the right thing to do, and just this once, he was able to do it. He leaned forward just a few inches more, and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. It was not the most graceful or practiced kiss, but it didn’t matter. As they kissed, Crowley felt the angel’s brightness flood into him, and for a moment he was scared that he would be burned from the inside out. But then he relaxed. Aziraphale’s light was not the harsh unyielding light cast by the other angels. His love was warm and kind and felt like basking on a sunny rock.

When they broke the kiss, Crowley threw his arms around Aziraphale and buried his face in the angel’s shoulder. He felt the angel’s arms slowly, hesitantly, reach out and embrace him.

“Crowley, my dear, you don’t have to, I mean, I know that you, well…I’m sorry…” the words came out in a rush, and Crowley snickered and drew back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Aziraphale. Angel. My brilliant, stupid angel. I’ve been in love with you for six thousand years. Stop apologizing.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “You what? but I thought—“

“Demons can’t love?” At the angel’s nod, Crowley shrugged. “I was an angel once. You don’t forget everything.”

“But, six thousand years? All that time?”

“Ever since you stood out in the rain, covering me with your wing and making excuses for giving away your sword.” He paused, then added, “Well, I think that’s when. I’m not entirely sure.”

“But you’re sure now?”

Crowley decided he was tired of answering questions, and didn’t have any he needed to ask. So he plopped himself into Aziraphale’s lap, wrapped his arms around the angel, and pulled him in for another lingering kiss.

He knew things couldn’t always be this perfect, not all the time, not after falling so long and so far. He would get restless and make up new schemes to unleash mayhem on London. There would be fights—the angel would say something stupid, and he would say something snide in response, and Aziraphale would get all stiff and offended, and then they would sulk for a while and have to make up. And eventually the war would come around again, and they would have to choose a side, and oh he desperately hoped it would be the same one.

But right now, for just a moment, Crowley didn’t have to do anything. He could let himself be still, and happy, and filled with light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a few inspirations:
> 
> The coin-gluing and several other details came from Neil and Terry's "Crowley and Aziraphale's New Years Resolutions," which I first saw on tumblr user lesbianomens' blog (https://lesbianomens.tumblr.com/post/185389297894/wait-do-people-know-about-aziraphale-and). 
> 
> The thing about flirting and eye contact was real advice I got from a tipsy girl in a club, and it popped into my head whenever Michael Sheen did that thing with his eyes at David Tennant. 
> 
> Those two things plus some scattered scenes that were floating around my head, and there you have it.


End file.
